Nursing a broken heart and broken system.

This is an old post written when we lost my great-grandmother last November. I wanted to keep a reminder for why I am hunting these family recipes and working so hard to reconnect with parts of myself I tried so hard to minimize. I also think it’s important to note that I take COVID very seriously. I take every precaution to travel as safely and responsibly as possible to ensure that I am not the reason another family goes through this.

I am always grateful for our medical professionals and frontline workers. I know they are overworked and under-appreciated on their best non-pandemic days, but today I am profoundly appreciative of the hospice care nurses.

My vivacious spitfire great-grandma was admitted to the hospital with COVID last week. The family sat vigil on a 24/7 Zoom, praying for her and telling favorite stories about her while her tiny frail body lay alone in her room. A variety of medical professionals came through and spoke with us through an iPad. A priest in riot gear level PPE administered her last rites. We knew her 102 years as the fierce matriarch of our family were coming to an end. I have literally never in my life wanted to hug a stranger as much as I did last night watching Nurse Skylar lovingly tend the woman that helped raise 9 kids, 27 grandkids, 46 great-grandkids, and 2 great-great-grandkids while we all watched helplessly from Japan, Australia, Vietnam, and across America.

As much as I want to tell you how much my family will miss her, or how real COVID is, or how we as a global community need to follow safety protocol and not kill our elders, my most overwhelming need is to tell you how grateful I am that the stressed system still has the bandwidth for compassion and kindness. I know I lack the capacity to handle the job of ushering people through their last days, dealing with the scared and grieving families, and certainly not putting myself at risk with people you know are losing their battle with this disease we simply do not fully understand. We're over it and exhausted and we're safe at home avoiding people with the plague, not running towards them.

The people that can do that are so unbelievably special, and we really need to protect them. To do and be better because that kind of heartbreak on this global pandemic scale has to be bringing a whole new category of heroes to PTSD. I read a quote this morning from a nurse that said “We don’t need your 7 PM noise, pizza delivery or even your gratitude. We need you to wear your damn mask, keep your distance, and take this seriously because you are killing us. Figuratively and literally.”

Thanksgiving is coming. The virus is real. The numbers are terrible. You really can give it to the vulnerable in a blink and cause irreparable damage with long reaching ripple effects. I’d rather not scream about the ridiculousness that some patients are denying this is happening with their last breaths. Or tell you how unfair it is that my grandmother is weeping thousands of miles from her mother because she’s not allowed to be there to say goodbye through more than a camera. Or how wrecked the family she lived with is that they can’t be the ones to take care of her final wishes because they have COVID and can’t leave their house.

Instead, I’ll tell you that Nurse Skylar is the most kind, gracious, compassionate, and empathetic person I’ve ever “met.” She had the gentlest bedside manner I’ve ever seen, and everything about her was reassuring to a family that really needed it. My mom told her that Ba Co really perked up and seemed more present when the doctor came in and touched her while looking her over. She asked if the nurse would just hold her hand for a couple minutes since none of us could. So she sat down next to her, held her hand, stroked her hair, brought her extra blankets, and arranged her rosary and crucifix so she could be spiritually cared for too. She answered our questions about what to expect and how grandma was doing. She asked if there were any cultural things she should know about to take care of her properly. The whole thing was hard but she made it so much better. When the time came and we called her back into the room, I think many of the tears being shed were of gratitude that she was there to help us through it. I can’t imagine how she looked at 30 people on a zoom crying and praying and kindly offered us peace and reassurance while we said goodbye. She was an angel, and I hope you’re as lucky as we were to have one like her as your loved one gets their wings. But most of all I hope you never have to. Please be careful this holiday season.